Like a pack of dogs lounging
in minutes, minutes, minutes, eyeing an endless treacle.
it’s worth the shot.
what is?
I heard he went into a crash,
and that Rey went into the deep blue dreaming of
fins and fish – that ******* Brenn was up in the hills.
it’s a wonderful day to fill this space with the electric frill
of laughter. Open that Emperador held loose in that
cheap, slender bottle. That’s worth the stipend, in exchange for
light – clarity, be it crass, and unsoundly. These ungodly hours
will form a God, trying to go home, slurring, shaking in his gait,
hailing a trisikad or a tricycle back to Philomena’s arms.
it was a magnificent day – you know it is. The squalid canals
are filled with the ******* under the care of a tyrant.
Jon looks like he’s cut up for matrimony. We jeer and give out
no jell so as to ridicule him into chaining himself to a passing.
Empyrean is the mood now: all primed for the blackened chapel’s chase
down the pews towards recognizing the smallest children inside ourselves.
This moment is far from over. Like a skipping Betamax. A gramophone
clamped in the kinked note lost somewhere in the sound byte,
try this matrix for the forgotten. Tomorrow we will curse ourselves
for the proud challenge, rivaling ourselves in the process.
Like dogs in heat. Like dogs aching to **** Like dogs
garroted by the selfish hands of the neighbor. Like old bones
sleeping in troves we have forgotten.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
Like a pack of dogs lounging
in minutes, minutes, minutes, eyeing an endless treacle.
it’s worth the shot.
what is?
I heard he went into a crash,
and that Rey went into the deep blue dreaming of
fins and fish – that ******* Brenn was up in the hills.
it’s a wonderful day to fill this space with the electric frill
of laughter. Open that Emperador held loose in that
cheap, slender bottle. That’s worth the stipend, in exchange for
light – clarity, be it crass, and unsoundly. These ungodly hours
will form a God, trying to go home, slurring, shaking in his gait,
hailing a trisikad or a tricycle back to Philomena’s arms.
it was a magnificent day – you know it is. The squalid canals
are filled with the ******* under the care of a tyrant.
Jon looks like he’s cut up for matrimony. We jeer and give out
no jell so as to ridicule him into chaining himself to a passing.
Empyrean is the mood now: all primed for the blackened chapel’s chase
down the pews towards recognizing the smallest children inside ourselves.
This moment is far from over. Like a skipping Betamax. A gramophone
clamped in the kinked note lost somewhere in the sound byte,
try this matrix for the forgotten. Tomorrow we will curse ourselves
for the proud challenge, rivaling ourselves in the process.
Like dogs in heat. Like dogs aching to **** Like dogs
garroted by the selfish hands of the neighbor. Like old bones
sleeping in troves we have forgotten.
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